


Maybe it's our thing

by pleasebekidding



Category: The Resident (TV 2018)
Genre: DS themes, M/M, gentle bondage, negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 10:23:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14788728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pleasebekidding/pseuds/pleasebekidding
Summary: Jude's never really talked about it, but he really wants to try.––You don’t do this shit without negotiating, and it’s not okay that it’s even crossed his mind not to. It might not be a huge gesture but he has Conrad’s wrists pinned against the wall, and he’s got a lot of strength on the guy.Conrad turns as if to try to figure out what’s happening. Jude doesn’t let go of his wrists, not right away. He rests his head on Conrad’s shoulder, and releases the pressure a little at a time.“Sorry,” he says.





	Maybe it's our thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CrossbowDontMiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrossbowDontMiss/gifts).



> This is a fandom which clearly needs to exist, and a ship that needs love.  
> Excuse the unbetaedness of it all, and thank you, CrossbowDontMiss, for inspiring me and coming on this ride.

This is the most boring surgical board Jude has ever seen.

This isn’t the day Jude needs today. And it’s been this day on repeat all week. Routine surgeries he could do in his sleep, and almost has. There’s almost nothing here that will even require him to close. He needs someone with a ferociously complicated penetrating injury to be wheeled into the emergency room so he can get engrossed for a few hours. He actually needs the zombie apocalypse to start so the hospital gets so busy he can’t think about another single thing. Because the second he’s done, gloves off and scrubs tossed into a laundry bag, he’s back to…

Remembering. Ruminating might be more accurate. Both. Worse: Fantasizing. Letting his imagination run out, for just a few feet because, you know, there's no ‘i’ in team. And then letting his imagination run out miles because he's a hot-blooded guy with proclivities he rarely discusses and he's fucking crazy in love.

Fucking _crazy_ in love.

Communication might not be a strong point, but it's definitely time someone said something.

 

It had been innocent enough. Sort of innocent enough. Honestly, Jude looks at Conrad and innocence takes a swan dive. No, that’s not even true. Conrad brings out more in Jude than he’d ever really suspected was there to draw out; he’d take a bullet for him, wants to make sure he’s eating and sleeping okay, wants to bend him over the back of the couch and make him gasp. He looks at Conrad and pictures rope. It’s not what you think, either, or not totally what you think; he can picture Conrad stretched out on the couch with his wrists tied loosely in front of him, head on Jude’s knee, half unconscious with bliss as Jude plays with his hair, t-shirt ruched up over the waistband of his jeans (probably one of Jude’s t-shirts, ancient and soft and miles too big for him).

Admittedly, he can also see Conrad actually tied to the head of the bed, but the thought is less urgent and less interesting. Jude loves the way Conrad touches him.

So, not innocent, but innocent _enough_.

One of those rare days where they finished work at the same time, and didn’t realize it until they each came looking for the other to say goodbye, see you soon. Jude’s heart had hitched in his throat when he’d seen the way Conrad’s eyes lit up, and crinkled, when he realized Jude was dressed to leave.

Dinner in a sports bar where they’d sort of watched a game and sort of mostly bumped elbows on the table, and had a couple of beers, carefully maintaining sobriety because the entire spontaneous date night had felt like foreplay. Conrad _cracking_ dirty jokes, and Jude _grinning_ at Conrad’s dirty jokes. Playing up the brat angle that often got him into trouble at the hospital, but that Jude had loved since they met.

They’d been out the door before the place got busy. Funny how with no world to save in the next three minutes Conrad would eat cheerfully enough, though they’d been fucking good burgers, too.

They’d practically fallen through the door to Conrad’s apartment, so eager were they to get their hands on each other.

And Conrad had said something so spectacularly bratty that it felt like something snapped in Jude’s brain.

Before he could really register what he was doing, he had Conrad against the wall, face first, both of those fine wrists held in one huge hand, using the other to work open the buckle of Conrad’s belt. The overwhelming desire to take, and command, had overwhelmed him. Intoxicating threads from all parts of their lives converged in that moment. The perverse glee Conrad seemed to take in it when Jude told him to do something, the heady thrill Jude felt when Conrad did what he was told (who else had ever managed that?). The way Conrad calmed to his touch, even when neither of them had a word to say about whatever fuckery was going on in the hospital.

Even the way Conrad slipped into little spoon position as soon as they climbed into bed. Kind of demanding. Entitled. Bratty. Enticingly, and gorgeously, submissive.

And he feels so fucking good, pressed between Jude’s body and the wall, suddenly still and anticipatory. Jude has this overwhelming urge to push it, and find out how far he could.

Several things happen at once.

Jude catches a glimpse of the knobs of spine at the base of Conrad’s neck. He’s not really fragile, physically, you can’t be, while maintaining insanely long hospital shifts and biking insane trails. But he looks it, and that leads Jude to remember every time he’s seen Conrad looking actually fragile, the bad kind, eyes wide with panic, trying to get away from Nic or Hunter or someone else who’s prodding him for something at the exact wrong time.

You don’t do this shit without negotiating, and it’s not okay that it’s even crossed his mind not to. It might not be a huge gesture but he has Conrad’s wrists pinned against the wall, and he’s got a lot of strength on the guy.

Conrad turns as if to try to figure out what’s happening. Jude doesn’t let go of his wrists, not right away. He rests his head on Conrad’s shoulder, and releases the pressure a little at a time.

“Sorry,” he says. His voice sounds like it’s come from somewhere a little way away from his body. Competing against the rush of blood in his ears, the thrumming of his heart.

“Hey, don’t worry about it, man,” Conrad says, after a beat. He doesn’t sound pissed. He sounds intrigued, and faintly disappointed. Jude turns him around, and wraps his arms around him, simple affection, nothing more or less than that.

The sex is great. The sex, it has to be said, is always great. But there’s definitely something tentative about it, tonight, and Jude blames himself.

 

“You’ve got crampons, right?”

They’ve got a rare Sunday off together, and the best way to celebrate that seems to be going out and risking their lives doing something fantastically fun. Sunday means the mountain they like to bike will be full of people moving at a snail’s pace, so — mountain climbing, why the fuck not? Jude is putting together sandwiches in the kitchen.

“Yeah. That box in the top of the wardrobe.”

Conrad pulls the step ladder out from beside the fridge, and Jude resists the urge to laugh. A few moments later, his brain kind of… whites out. There’s more in that box than just hiking equipment. There’s rope in there that isn’t regulation nylon. He drops the knife with a clatter.

“I’ll grab them,” he says, but it’s too late. Conrad has a coil of luxury silk rope in his hands, and an indecipherable smile on his face. He reaches for an ankle cuff.

“Something you wanna tell me?” He says. He’s still smiling, but there’s caution there, too.

Jude crosses his arms. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Oh, yes it is,” Conrad says, with a laugh. “Don’t worry, I knew you were a pervert.”

Jude shifts his weight. He has no idea how to talk about this.

“There’s tags on these,” Conrad says cautiously, picking up the other cuff. “New?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t wanna know who you bought them for.” He’s still smiling, but the corners of his mouth are tight, and the crinkles have gone from his eyes.

Jude crosses the space and takes them gently from Conrad’s hands. “I didn’t buy them for anyone,” he promises. It’s true. He’d been interested, had no idea where to start, and had abandoned the entire concept in the space of about a week, because the scene he’d stumbled on seemed so hollow. People who didn’t know or especially care about each other, he thought, coming together because of one singular interest which only bonded them for a night or two before they’d drift off again. He hadn’t wanted that.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says gently, kissing Conrad’s temple and putting the cuffs in the box. They’ve detached, the fine silver chain dangling furtively from one of them, so fine and pretty. Not exactly designed for anything rough. He pulls the box across the bed and rummages for the crampons. “I think you were after these.”

The second he’s got this apartment to himself for ten minutes, that’s all going in the trash. Should have a long time ago, from the moment he’d realized he couldn’t bring himself to take them back to the store.

Anyway, Conrad forgets about the whole thing as soon as he can smell the mountains, and their day is fucking spectacular, so none of that matters at all.

 

Except he hasn’t actually forgotten, apparently. 4am in an on-call room. They should be fast asleep (they shouldn’t be able to fit on the same bunk, but since Conrad is lying more or less on top of Jude with his head resting on his heart, they’re making it work). They probably would be, if the night hadn’t been so frantic and so tough. Makes it hard to slow the head down. Of course, as any hospital doctor knows, even if you can’t sleep, rest helps.

“You were embarrassed. You shouldn’t be. Not with me.”

Jude’s eyes snap open, and he stretches, Not enough to dislodge Conrad, just _enough_. He puts one hand behind his head, and gives himself ten seconds to follow the non-sequitur of the day.

“Oh,” he says, remembering. “No… no.” No, he’s not embarrassed, except by his behavior that night. “It’s not a big deal, Conrad.” He rubs circles into Conrad’s back. “I’m not embarrassed.”

“Then why are you bein’ so fucking cagey about it?”

“I’m not cagey.”

“Oh, yeah. The way you said that didn’t sound cagey at all, I don’t know what I was thinking. Now you’ve explained it, I can see that the apparent caginess was all in my head.” Brat. Conrad angles his face back, until he can brush his lips over Jude’s jaw. “Everyone’s got something.”

“Yeah?” Jude adjusts his weight on the bed as Conrad props himself on one shoulder. “And what have you got, Conrad?”

Conrad gets a distant look in his eye for a second. It might be the low light that makes him look a little far away. “Maybe I just haven’t figured that out yet.”

The door bursts open. Neither Jude nor Conrad react as Mina enters, and pushes the door shut behind her. She glares at them for a moment, and then waggles a pointed finger.

“Not a word from either of you. I have twenty-two minutes to sleep and if you can’t shut up, you can go.” She climbs the short ladder to the upper bunk and stretches out. Her capacity to wield every available moment for sleep has always been impressive.

Conrad gives Jude a look that somehow conveys both that the conversation isn’t over, and also, that Mina is hilarious. But they can shut up. They _do_ shut up. Another twenty-two minutes of sleep sounds nice.

 

For no particular reason – or, perhaps, for obvious reasons – the whole concept falls off the radar, for a while. They’re busy. They snatch moments, they relish a shared day off from time to time. Life goes back to normal, if it ever wasn’t.

 

“What time do you get off?” Jude asks Conrad, catching up in the corridor. Conrad’s eyes crinkle as he glances up and smiles.

“Couple of hours after you finish work, I hope,” he says. Jude loves him a bit more every day. “Getting out of here as soon as I drop by radiology, though.”

“I should be done by eight,” Jude says, looking over his clipboard, and grinning. “If you walk Cookie and do something about dinner, that can _probably_ be arranged.”

“You telling me what to do, Silva?” Jude asks, and they both stop abruptly in an alcove. He’s got the crinkly eyes, and he’s standing way too close. “I love it when your voice does that thing.” He sighs theatrically, shakes his head. “Pity I have to get to radiology.” He takes a step away, and Jude reaches for his wrist. He steps closer again. They kind of… smile at each other, undercurrents on undercurrents, and Conrad doesn’t try to pull his wrist away. He angles his chin like he’s got a question, or he’s pointing out the location of a kiss tucked into the corner of his mouth. There’s a lot of history, in this moment. Saving lives together. Rolling down treacherous mountains together. Reaching for each other in the dark. All the yeses they’re yet to speak out loud, all tangled up in a moment in a corridor in a hospital in a city best known for being a cheap place to make a movie.

Conrad lowers his voice, but leans forward the commensurate amount.

“How’s ‘Bell’ for a safe word? Ought to kill the mood, right? Or maybe HODAD.”

“What do you know about safe words?” Jude asks, skeptically, but he can feel the way his mouth is curved at the corners.

“I’ll see you at dinner. Chinese? You know I’m not cooking.”

Jude’s thumb runs over the bump in Conrad’s wrist. “Chinese sounds good,” he says, and they part ways again. Jude spends three minutes in a bathroom stall just breathing, wondering if he’d imagined the darkening of Conrad’s eyes. Three minutes waiting for his pulse to calm. And then he goes back to work.

 

Mushu pork and spicy beef, crispy noodles and won-tons; Conrad’s ordered like he’s actually planning to eat, maybe put a way a couple of boxes of leftovers, that’s a good sign. Good timing, too; he’s unpacking plastic containers from a bag when Jude lets himself in.

“Hi, honey, I’m home,” Jude says, tossing his backpack aside without fanfare and pulling his shirt off on the way to the kitchen. It’s not meant to be provocative; he just wants to change into something that doesn’t have undertones of _eau de l’hôpital_ woven into its fibers. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy the appreciative narrowing of Conrad’s eyes when he leans to kiss his cheek on the way to the closet.

“And I got your dinner on the table. And I walked the kid.” There’s something in Conrad’s voice, but Jude isn’t ready to overthink it just yet. _Under-thinking_ is a better option, outside of the hospital. Jude pulls a faded plaid shirt on and buttons the bare minimum of buttons.

“I’ve got a job for you in the morning, House,” he tells Conrad. “Mystery patient. It’s not lupus.” Well, it doesn’t seem to be, but that’s more of a House joke anyway. “Diagnosed with hypochondria in three hospitals and today would have made it four, if she hadn’t gone into anaphylactic shock. With no exposure to allergens.”

Conrad straightens his back, and Jude can tell he wants to turn around and go back this moment. Nothing better than a medical mystery.

“Nope. Not tonight.” He moves around the kitchen collecting bowls and spoons. “They’re doing a bunch of routine bloodwork overnight and monitoring her vitals. Tomorrow, you take a look at the bloods, have a talk to her, work your magic, because I don’t have a fucking clue.”

Makes Jude proud, watching Conrad figure something out after everyone else has failed. Proud, and sort of smug.

“I’m serious, she can wait. She needs to sleep,” he says, not pointing out that he himself has needs as well. Conrad gives a little shrug, but Jude can tell his mind is in overdrive. Should have waited until later to tell him. Hazards of dating a genius. Dating? That’s the wrong word.

They load up bowls there in the kitchen, and sit at the small dining table, knees and elbows bumping. The TV’s on, but it’s too quiet for Jude to even know what’s on. Just background noise, while they talk about their days, and quietly plot the downfall of Bell. And by the way, Jude’s pointedly not mentioning it, but Bell is a terrible safe word. That won’t just kill the mood. That will take it out the back and beat the shit out of it, so it doesn’t recover for a couple of weeks.

The shift from the dining table to the couch barely even merits a word; sitting up straight is too much effort after this many hours on their feet. Conrad leans into Jude’s chest, and Jude turns up the volume. It says a lot about his priorities that he easily picks up a rhythm brushing his fingers through Conrad’s hair, but still doesn’t know what’s on television.

“What do you like about it?”

Jude groans, and rubs his eye with the heel of his hand. “I don’t have all that much experience. I don’t know.”

“I love the picture you’re painting here. It’s really coming alive for me.”

Jude pinches Conrad’s arm. “Brat.” He sighs quietly, and reaches for the remote, turning the television off.

“I don’t know. I suppose some of it…” he pauses, scratching through the scruff on his chin. He’s started trimming it instead of shaving, which Conrad seems to like. “There’s so much trust. If you’ve got someone under your control, you could hurt them, humiliate them, leave them, and instead they have to know you’re going to treat them right. Look after them. And if they trust you enough to do what you ask them to… I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it in a long time.”

Conrad drapes his elbow over Jude’s thigh, and lets his fingers play over Jude’s knee. Waiting.

“I’d been on my own for a while. I thought… and then I met a couple of… I just decided it wasn’t my thing after all.”

Conrad laughs, rearranging himself until his head is in Jude’s lap. “Not your thing? It’s totally your thing. You love to boss me around.”

Damn him.

“What are you getting at?” Jude traces his fingers over Conrad’s forehead, down his cheek, over his neck, down to those sharp collarbones, protruding from a t-shirt that is definitely Jude-sized, not Conrad-sized. “It’s not _your_ thing. You should have seen your face when you saw that silk rope.”

“That was silk? Fancy.” Conrad brings Jude’s hand to his face, kisses his palm. “Sounds to me like you don’t really know if it’s your thing or not. And I definitely don’t know if it’s my thing or not. But I know when someone tells me what to do, it usually makes me wanna do the opposite. But when you tell me what to do… there’s definitely a physiological reaction, and it’s sure as shit not anaphylaxis.” He’s quiet a moment. “Something nearly happened that night.” He points at the wall. “Right there. And you stopped. I don’t know what happened but I was definitely intrigued.”

Jude feels a mild flicker of shame.

“Because we hadn’t talked about it. And that’s the number one rock-solid rule. Negotiation. Consent. There are men in your life who’ve tried to control you, Conrad…”

Conrad stiffens, and looks away, because they don’t talk about his father. And Jude doesn’t know the whole story there, and maybe he never will. But a glimpse of that asshole in the halls is enough to turn Conrad into a wreck the entire day, barely able to make eye contact with anyone but patients, and that doesn’t happen because dad took your gameboy away for a whole week.

“… And I’m not gonna be one of them. Not like that. And for that matter, you have to know, if I tell you to do something and you don’t want to — then I don’t want you to. Clear on that?”

Conrad makes a gesture which is probably assent, and gets comfortable again.

“Tell me to shine your shoes, see how that goes,” he says, and as if he needs to get out of the brain space, he turns on his side and crawls across Jude’s body, settling over his lap, pulling on Jude’s shirt to get his cool hands on the warm, hard flesh of his stomach.

“So if I wanted to try it.”

Jude places a hand on either side of Conrad’s face. He could lie. He could say he’s just not interested anymore. Or put it off until things are quieter, when they both know things will never be quieter. Instead he draws Conrad in for a deep kiss, the sort that leaves them both breathless, Conrad nipping at Jude’s bottom lip, and his pale face flushing appealingly.

“If you wanted to try it,” he answers, when they’ve stopped by sheer necessity, in dire need of oxygen, and are leaning their foreheads together, trying to catch their breath. “We’d start simple. And _Bell_ is the worst safe word anyone ever came up with. Keep thinking.”

“Whatever you say,” Conrad says, the crinkly smile returning as he pulls off Jude’s shirt, and follows it with his own.

 

Maybe he’s satisfied with the conversation, maybe he’s changed his mind. Over the next month, Conrad doesn’t make another crack about it, doesn’t mention it again, doesn’t joke about safe words or (thankfully) call Jude daddy, or master, or General, or any one of the hundred different cringe-worthy names he might have encountered if he’d (shudder) hit up google for some more information. He’s not as funny as he thinks he is.

Ugh, yes he is.

Two days off, in a row, at the same time, and it’s a Tuesday, so they suit up and hit the mountain trails. Showing off, pushing their bikes as far as they can go. They both wipe out more than once and come up laughing. They’re competitive, but it’s not about winning so much as it is about beating the other guy, if that makes any kind of sense. This is peak Conrad, sweating and delicious, skin flushed and muscles burning, scarfing down sandwiches without a word of argument.

Some day, they’re going to have to walk, instead. See some cute little woodland creatures, the kind that hide in terror when lunatic humans on two wheels come near their habitats.

Late afternoon they throw the bikes in the back of Jude’s truck and head back to civilization. Civilization might be a little boring and staid but they’re both exhausted, in that can’t-stop-grinning way. They take a long bath, soaking exhausted muscles and dozing, music playing quietly through tinny bluetooth speakers in the corner of the bathroom. Jude makes gentle waves in the water with his hand, traces patterns on Conrad’s stomach, on his thighs. Half asleep in scorching hot water that won’t stay hot for long, occasionally murmuring something about food, or a movie, one of which is going to be essential pretty soon and the other which would be a nice way to spend a couple of hours before an early night, since they both have a sleep debt to work off. It’s a sleep debt they’re never actually going to work off, but a solid ten or eleven hours would make a huge difference on Thursday, when they’re back at it.

“I think I wanna try it,” Conrad says. He speaks so quietly that Jude might have pretended he though he’d imagined it, any other moment. But if they’re doing this, it’s on Conrad’s terms, and pretending not to hear him right now would be pretty bad form.

“Yeah?”

“So what would you do?”

Jude’s not entirely sure he’s ever heard Conrad sound quite so unadorned. No cockiness in his voice, no tease. Not upset, not overtired, just raw, trusting, curious. Head turned back towards his shoulder, as if to evaluate Jude’s expression, though he can’t turn that far back. Jude presses a hand to Conrad’s forehead, and he relaxes again.

“I’m tired,” he admits.

“Is that a no?”

“No, it’s a… I really wanna watch a movie. On the couch.”

Conrad chuckles. “Okay? I don’t think I’m following, dude.”

“With you in my lap.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“With your wrists…” Jude’s hand move down Conrad’s arms, skimming through the warm water, until he has his wrists in a gentle grasp. “Tied together,” he finishes, bringing them together and holding them firm. Just a little tightly. Barely a taste. Enough.

Conrad tips his head back. “Okay,” he laughs. “I mean, that’s a little weirder than I thought…” there’s a hint of affectionate sarcasm on his breath, and Jude nuzzles against his ear.

“You’re gonna find it more intense than you think.”

“Yeah, right. And you’re not even gonna…?”

“Later, if you’re alright — and in the mood. I promise you, I’ll worship you, head to toe…” His voice gets lower, intense, almost sinister. “… kiss you everywhere I can reach — and then make sure you’re not even thinking about getting on a bike tomorrow.”

“Well, if I knew you were gonna sweet talk me,” Conrad says, trying to sit up.

“Not yet. Ground rules.”

“Oh, awesome,” Conrad chuckles, understanding his fate and accepting it at least enough to settle back against Jude’s body. “Hit me with it. But I get to say no, right? Hey, negotiation. I looked it up.”

“Not this one,” Jude says. “It’s my dealbreaker.”

“I should get a pen.”

“If you need something… You tell me. And if I ask you if you need something — you _tell_ me.”

Conrad seems to think about it, for a moment. “I can live with that.”

“And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“I’m not the only one that gets to make up rules,” he says.

“Fuck, babe. I don’t even know. Ask me next time. If there’s a next time.”

Jude nods. Conrad’s arms slip easily from his grip as he gets to his feet. He’s flushed, warm, and gratifyingly, half-hard. Not that Jude thinks there’s anything but a solid night’s sleep in their future, tonight at least, but it still spikes his blood pressure. He stays where he is, watching Conrad rub his hair dry, and wrap a towel around his waist.

“Wear loose clothing,” Jude says. “And get the rope.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Conrad says, with one of his very best crinkly smiles, and he’s out the bathroom door.

No rush, so it’s a good twenty minutes before Jude is dressed and stretched out on the couch waiting. Flicking through Netflix, looking for something easy to watch, something that won’t require too much brain power, since he’s not anticipating having much to spare. He’s watched Conrad drag the step ladder to the wardrobe so he can pull down the box of… well, what do you call the box that holds crampons, spare batteries, knee pads and bondage gear? Whatever, it’s an awesome box, and Conrad has the rope in his hands, one of Jude’s t-shirts draped over his spare frame, and a pair of sleep pants that conceal absolutely nothing about his perfectly sculpted ass.

Conrad wanders out of the bedroom looking half sheepish and half anticipatory, face and arms still flushed from the hot bath. Better to be warm than cold, not that the chill on Conrad’s skin ever really lasts long when he’s draped against Jude’s body. Jude doesn’t move, just stretches on the chaise part of the lounge, one hand tucked behind his head, waiting.

He pats the seat cushion beside him, and Conrad sits down, close as he can, studying the softly frayed end of the rope. It’s neither too thick, nor too fine, soft and expensive, with enough tensile strength to pull down the Chrysler building with an electric scooter (if the electric scooter had the torque of a hippopotamus’s back end). Never used, of course, just stretched out carefully by Jude the week before he decided against the entire thing, and forgotten.

“Did you think of a safe word?” Jude asks, reaching for the rope, and pulling it into his lap, pulling Conrad from his gaze.

“Yeah,” Conrad says. He hesitates. “Oleander.”

Maybe sometime he’ll explain, but right now, he doesn’t seem inclined. He looks good, confident. Eyes bright. Gorgeous. He’s always gorgeous. Right now, he’s got this gleam in his eye, this look on his face that Jude wants to kiss off. Moments later, Conrad is straddling his thighs, and Jude isn’t even sure who initiated that. But they kiss, slow and rich and deep; Conrad arms go around Jude’s neck, and Jude wraps his own arms tight around Conrad’s waist, close and tight as they can be. He feels Conrad’s teeth in his bottom lip, sharp little teeth. Possessive.

“Conrad,” Jude murmurs.

“Yeah.”

“Sit back. And hold your forearms out.”

Conrad gives a shiver that probably has very little to do with the warm room, and rocks back on his heels, resettling his weight just barely north of Jude’s knees. The way he doesn’t hesitate, the way he holds his arms out, briefly making eye contact as if to ask if he’s doing it right, makes that protective, possessive streak of Jude’s surge to the surface.

As much as Jude likes the idea of seeing every inch of Conrad’s skin from wrist to elbow criss-crossed with the black rope, starting gently seems like a better idea for the both of them. He’s not entirely sure what inspires the pattern the rope falls into, carefully infinity signs, one after the other, three solid inches of them starting from barely below the heel of Conrad’s hand. Over one arm, under the other. Careful to maintain the tension, despite the meltdown in his head, despite the hormones waging war with good sense. Taut, but not tight, because having to untie Conrad in a panic because his hands have gone blue isn’t the sexiest way he can think of ending the night. Probably a good thing there are a couple of doctors in the house.

“Not too tight?” Jude says, as the rope ends get shorter. Conrad wiggles his fingers experimentally, and meets Jude’s eyes for a moment. He looks self-conscious. Jude catches Conrad’s chin in his finger.

“Tight _enough_?” He asks, this time, his voice thick.

Conrad nods slowly, and leans in for another kiss. Softer, this time. Warm. When he sits back again, Jude ties off the ends of the rope.

It’s beautiful. He wants to photograph it.

Jude lifts a glass of red wine from the end table and takes a sip, regarding Conrad almost predatorily. Conrad laughs quietly. Not sure what he’s supposed to do, as amused as he is intrigued.

“You want some?”

Conrad reaches for the stem, and Jude pulls it away. He seems to get it, the second time, and leans back just enough to take a swallow. A trickle runs over his lip, down over his chin, and Jude pulls him down as he sets the glass aside, tongue tracing the path back to Conrad’s lip.

Conrad lets out what might be a whimper. The amusement is gone from his face. His eyes look so big and dark they dominate his face.

Jude supports him as he unbalances, easing him down against his own body.

“Easy, babe. Easy. I have you. You can trust me, remember, that’s the whole point.”

He settles Conrad against his body, Conrad’s head against his chest, bound wrists in his lap. Jude slips his fingers between Conrad’s hands, and the way Conrad grips back weakly makes his heart race.

He reaches for the remote control, but Conrad shifts in his arms. “Don’t,” he says.

Jude tosses the remote at the other end of the couch, and settles his free hands on Conrad’s shoulder, tracing the dense muscle of his arm all the way to his elbow, down as far as the beginning of the rope coils.

“You want me to just focus on you?” He murmurs. “Conrad?”

Conrad is quiet for a moment. “Yeah. No, I don’t know. I like the quiet.”

Jude nuzzles at Conrad’s throat, eliciting another full-body shiver. “How do you feel?”

Conrad is quiet for a moment, and then rolls partially onto his side, not without difficulty. Jude helps, until Conrad is comfortable, half-sprawled across Jude’s body, just trying to find somewhere comfortable to rest his arms.

Well. He’s not necessarily supposed to be _completely_ comfortable.

“How do you feel?” Jude asks again, still letting one hand move over Conrad’s body. The other is tucked around his chest, keeping him secure, and still. Touching, touching, under the edge of his shirt, over the curve of his ass, down the back of his thigh. It’s intimate, it’s beautiful, but despite the absolute lack of boundaries, the hungry way Conrad eats up the contact, there’s nothing especially sexual about it.

They’ve never been quite this raw, this vulnerable, even while completely naked. Even on Conrad’s worst day, demons crawling through his brain.

“I feel like you talk too much,” he says, with just an edge of bravado in his voice.

“Conrad,” Jude warns.

“I feel owned,” he says, quieter.

“Is that good or bad?”

Conrad snuggles closer, and kisses Jude’s bicep. “It’s good,” he says, quietly, and settles in.

Hard to know how much time has passed, when Conrad stirs again. Maybe he fell asleep, maybe he’s just been really out of it; he’s reacted to being touched, so the latter seems more likely, but even so, when he tries to use his arms to prop himself up, he has a moment of shock when he discovers he can’t. Jude’s arm, strong as steel cable, eases him up, and he sits dazed in Jude’s lap for a moment.

“Look at me,” Jude says, cupping Conrad’s face in one hand. Conrad’s eyes are huge, and dark, spacy looking. His face looks ten years younger, maybe twenty years younger than he had yesterday, dragging his ass out of Chastain at the end of his shift to find Jude’s truck in the parking lot.

“Are you alright?”

Conrad pulls against the rope again. Yeah, he’s completely out of it. Jude eases him back down, head on Jude’s chest. He can untie the loops one-handed, as soon as Conrad is ready.

“Didn’t think it would be like this,” Conrad admits. His voice, husky as always, is lower than usual, rougher than sandpaper.

“Yeah, okay, but that’s not what I asked you.” The end of the rope between his thumb and forefinger, Jude pulls, carefully, and the knot slips apart in less than a moment.

“I feel heavy. I don’t want to get off you.”

“You be as heavy as you need to be. I’ll always carry you.”

“I feel like crying,” he admits, with the barest hint of a humiliated laugh.

“So? cry. It’s not gonna bother me,” Jude murmurs, as he begins to unravel the rope one-handed, one side at a time, revealing red welts he can’t wait to massage back into submission. Conrad tugs against him briefly, as if disappointed. “Another time. That’s enough for now.”

“Spoken like a veteran of the art.”

“Spoken like the only person on this couch that can hold themselves up unaided,” Jude corrects gently, as he reaches the last few loops. There is a bruise blossoming on each of Conrad’s wrists, and Jude can’t resist touching them. He wonders how many times in the next couple of days Conrad will notice them and remember this moment.

He reaches behind him for a bottle of massage oil, warm from its proximity to the radiator. He drizzles a little on each hand, and begins to work it into Conrad’s arms, gently, then more firmly as it begins to soak in.

“So is that it?” Conrad says, with an edge in his voice. Still too out of it for Jude to interpret. “That’s all you want to do — tie my wrists together and touch me?”

Jude takes a breath. “No. That’s not all I want to do,” he says, quietly. “I don’t know that there are a lot of things I don’t wanna do to you. With you. Both. But I wanna make this clear, Conrad. I’m following your lead, unless I think you’re moving too fast. One step at a time. And the rules — they matter, babe. If we’re not both getting what we need, it’s not worth it.”

“Oh, more rules, that’ll be fun.”

“No, same rules. I’m serious. If you need something… You tell me. And if I ask you if you need something — you _tell_ me,” he says. Bit by bit, the welts are softening, and the pale skin becomes flushed again. “I love you. I don’t take it lightly, that you’re willing to…”

“Want to,” Conrad corrects. “I _want_ to.”

“That you want to do this. With me.”

“Okay. Now be quiet, because I love you, too, babe, but all this serious talk is ruining my buzz.”

 

Takes another hour to get Conrad into bed, with his limbs fantastically sloppy and his eyes still so dilated the soft light makes him blink like he’s drunk. Body worship and overwhelming kisses will have to wait until the morning. They sleep heavy, and tangled, with Jude’s hand wrapped loosely around Conrad’s wrist, like his body just doesn’t want to forget.


End file.
